


Gabriel's gift

by TheMissingMask



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gabriel wants revenge, Getting Together, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Post-averted apocalypse, Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 20:03:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20120887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMissingMask/pseuds/TheMissingMask
Summary: After averting the apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale are finally free to be together.  Unfortunately, they first have to deal with an archangel's personal vendetta against the subordinate principality who messed things up.---Pretty much an excuse for some Crowley/Aziraphale getting together, Crowley being protective and worried, and some hurt/comfort. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯





	Gabriel's gift

There was no bold declaration of love.

There were no hesitant yet lingering touches, nor uneasy stammered words.

There were no tearful confessions or drunken proclamations.

There was just Crowley, spinning on his heel mid-step to push Aziraphale roughly up against a wall, capturing his lips in an unrelenting kiss.

There was Aziraphale’s mind reeling, desperately trying to handle the dichotomy of sin versus desire, running theological and moral arguments in uncertain circles through his head until Crowley’s tongue pressed into his mouth, instantly dissipating any apprehension the angel had felt.

There was the awkward silence as they parted, both seeming to realise at the same moment just what had happened.That the unspoken barrier that had for so long existed between them had, in an instant, ceased to be.

How it happened, neither knew.Nor would either later recall.

Aziraphale had said…something.A veiled compliment, perhaps.Some flattery, some romantic words…for all Crowley knew, it could have been the idle mentioning of a duck.It really didn’t matter.Whatever it was, it had been the final blow to bring about the inevitable, and Crowley had been unable to restrain himself any longer.He acted without thought, on an instinct that screamed a need to taste and touch and possess his angel.

The action had been met with no resistance, even the welcoming parting of lips for him, but also with no real active reciprocation.Aziraphale, despite wanting and readily accepting this, found himself not quite able to react as he ought.The possible message this might send was not missed, and as they parted he allowed his hand to brush Crowley’s.As they set off in the Bentley, an unspoken agreement taking them towards the bookshop, he settled that same hand on Crowley’s thigh as the pair continued to not dare a glance towards each other.

He had chosen the thigh as an appropriate place for his hand out of some understanding that Crowley’s arms were required to steer the car and avoid hitting pedestrians.It was the safest part of the demon to touch when driving.That was all.Logical and innocent.

To Crowley, however, the hand on his leg had a very different connotation.

And, perhaps, given how readily Aziraphale allowed the demon to push him, lips once more locked in a heated kiss, through the doors to the bookshop and straight up against a shelf on arriving, Aziraphale may not have been so innocent in the implications as he would claim himself to be.

They made their way to the back room, not once parting for any purpose other than to move their explorations to some new part of the other’s body, or to relish for a moment the half-lidded lustful expressions of the other.Crowley made short work of the angel’s clothes, opting to undress him reverently rather than with a click of his fingers as would be perfectly possible for him.Every new inch of exposed skin was ravished with kisses and licks and bites, each drawing fresh delicious sounds from the angel’s lips.

What Aziraphale lacked in experience he made up for in clumsy eagerness.The desperate way in which he returned Crowley’s ministrations, in part trying to replicate what the demon did and in part through touches entirely his own, was as adorable to Crowley as it was alluring.

They didn’t have sex that night, although both knew that would surely come.Both knew the other was appropriately endowed for their corporeal genders.They had been to the same Roman baths, after all, and there had been that one memorable instance in the 1960s when they accidentally wound up at the same nudist festival.But outside of their minds, they had not explored each other’s physiology, and Aziraphale would protest he had not made use of his own at all.

So, as clothing was removed, they began to undertake the long-awaited explorations previously only imagined.

Aziraphale bore welcome witness first hand to Crowley’s dexterous experience and, to his equal surprise and delight, Crowley discovered that his long-standing suspicions regarding Aziraphale’s gentleman’s club had not been so erroneous after all.The angel insisted he did not take part in the activities so much as simple perform a ‘pleasure-heightening miracle’ or two.By the time he was left sweating and panting and gasping with euphoria, he was coming to doubt that entirely.

Blissfully satisfied, the two sat variously clothed with their legs entwined, finishing up a bottle of wine together.

Not once through the evening had either angel or demon say what the other already knew.The ineffable truth that they had been dancing - really more shuffling awkwardly - around for millennia.That they had been gravitating towards each other, towards this moment, since their first conversation in Eden.

The serpent had been enthralled by the beautiful angel standing over the Eastern Gate, thrilled by his shameful admission to acting in accordance with his own sense of good rather than that dictated by God, and touched somewhere deeply suppressed when the angel shielded him from the rain, his own white clothes and pale hair soon becoming entirely soaked by the first storm.

The angel had felt something he quickly fled from when the attractive demon spoke to him without a harsh word.Not one scowl or admonishment or patronising mockery he was so used to receiving from his fellow angels.Just conversation, honest and free, and…pleasant.

These things didn’t need saying aloud.Not now, and perhaps not ever.They were here, together, in the moment, and that was more than enough.

Draining his last glass, Crowley set it down haphazardly on the coffee table and stretched himself out languidly on the sofa.

“Still can’t tempt you to a spot of shut-eye, angel?” he said in a voice that betrayed his contented indifference to the response.

Aziraphale smiled fondly, swirling his own wine and shaking his head, “Afraid not, my dear.I think tonight calls for a spot of literary indulgence.One of Miss Austen’s works, perhaps.”

The demon shrugged and let his eyes drift closed, “Goodnight, angel.”

“I believe it’s morning, dear.”

The correction was met with a noncommittal hum, that was replaced with a perfectly contented one as Aziraphale rose and pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, stepping away after a moment to retrieve one of his many first editions from a shelf.

Aziraphale settled into his chair with the book and a fresh bottle of wine.But, barely had he completed the heroine’s introduction when his gaze fell upon Crowley’s sleeping form, and lingered there for the rest of the night, the book and wine both long forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> Not much going on in this chapter, but have to set things up first, methinks. There shall be some semblance of a plot emerging in the next chapter (hopefully).


End file.
